Beyond the Grave
by Alice Shade
Summary: Sometimes, death is just another trifling bother to overcome... Provided one has a good reason to keep on existing postmortem. A whole box of Cuddlebuddies... Is that a reason enough? Yes. Yes it so is.


Legal drek disclaimer.

I do not own the show, nor any character. All fanfiction clauses apply. No profit could ever be sought nor garnered through perusal of this text. Anyone interested has the right to write sequel, prequel, remake, whathave you. For the most inquisitive, there are author notes in the end.  
N.B. - YES, this is my spin off sequel to the "A box of Cuddlebuddies" by captainkodak1, posted here with his gracious permission. Details below in the author notes.

_**Beyond the grave: We do what we must**_

She yanked on chain yet again. It rattled. There was no way to check for progress other then feeling up the chain to the wall and poking at the subtle cracks slowly forming, and she was conserving her strength as much as she could. No movement wasted - that was the motto of the day... Day? Week? Month, maybe?

She remembered well. As it happened, as the lid scraped across the hole, cutting off the last of light. She struggled madly back then, pulling and jerking her chains ferociously. She kept struggling until exhaustion overcame her and she collapsed. Hours later, when she regained consciousness, she resumed her struggle. Minutes, hours, days... As she fought on, oblivion came more and more often, claiming her for what little recuperation she could garner. In the end, she remembered lying without any strength, mustering enough energy to yank chain once an hour by the sheer willpower alone.

Evidently, she was supposed to extinguish here, alone and forgotten. But she didn't like that idea. It was not acceptable. And oblivion stepped back time and time again so she could resume her struggle. She never paused to observe herself, the only goal of her life to rip the chain out of the wall and stand up freely. Everything else was inconsequential until the main objective could be fulfilled. She gave up on her senses, neither sight, nor sound, nor smell giving her any useful information, and concentrated on the chain.

Yank. Another yank. And another. There was no question of if it was possible at all - she knew that chain would eventually break. It was just a matter of when. Until then, all she had to do was to pace herself and put all that she had into yanking. And suddenly, it was over. With a quiet crack, steel ring gave in, concrete crumble and dust trickling down the wall as the ring suddenly gave slack. It was a first sign of success. Yank. Another yank. And another... And yet another.

***

She crawled over the floor, chain rattling as it dragged after her over the rough floor. She remembered. Concrete cap. This cistern was sealed from the top. More concrete. It would give in eventually, as well, of course. Although, wouldn't there be a better way? Her fingers searched. Cistern was of fair quality, showing no palpable signs of damage from outside. However, that was not of much consequence. As she crawled, she reactivated more of her body, necessity dictating to perceive more. She heard. It was silent. Then she smelled. It was hard. She could not make out any odours beyond sickly sweet smell of death and decay of herself. It's been too long, way beyond what human body could've possibly tolerated. Rot had settled onto her, wasting away the softest and wettest spots first. That did not matter much, since there was no moist in cistern - dry rot was slow and sparing on what mattered most right now. She did not spare any time to ponder the cause that kept mummified body moving, searching for the exit - the answer was obvious.

Coming back to the original spot, she felt the edges of hole left by yanked out ring. Bingo. That weak spot would be where she would redouble her efforts to escape. Escape and... have revenge. Concrete crumbled a little. Sliding her fingers over the dandling chain, she grabbed it's end, and racked it against the cracking concrete. Again. And again. And again.

***

She smelled dust. Something was subtly different about the smell of crumbling concrete. Could it be that she was breaking through the wall already? She pressed the end of her makeshift tool into the crack again. Something felt off with her hand too. Off literally, she noticed with detachment as the chain rattled down. Constant movement of handcuff had finally sawed through her wrist completely, letting the chain detach from her. That was a good sign. But she was aggravated about the loss of hand. Letting out her irritation as quiet raspy snarl, she picked her hand, and pressed it back to her stump. She did not need another failure right now. It had to hold. It did. It had to.  
She picked up metal from her lap and pressed it into the crack again, wrenching out more and more concrete with each shove. She would not be held in this prison. Nor in any other prison. No matter what it takes.

She smelled. Concrete was crumbling. She was able to wrench out several of the blocks that made up the wall of cistern. Smell of fresh earth was exhilarating. It was aroma of freedom. She racked her tool against the earth. She gathered handfuls of earth. She tossed earth behind her. Again. Again. And again.

She had to move more now. She had no choice, so she moved. Dry body protested, but she would not be denied by something so petty. So she moved. And felt. And smelled. And heard. Her fingers scooped earth and threw it behind her into the cistern, allowing her to dig in further and further. Suddenly, she felt the movement under one of fingers. She felt. It was something alive. Something squishy and wiggling. A worm, perhaps. It could be useful. She tasted.

It was larva of maybug, apparently, rancid moistness exploding in her mouth as she crushed it with her teeth and ground. It was good. It was pleasant. It was invigorating. She kept digging. A little later, she caught a worm, and ate it as well. Every little bit helps.

***

It was getting colder. Apparently, surface was near. She kept digging. It's been rather long track now to carry the loose earth into the cistern, but she was fine with that. She had time. She needed to take her time and make this one count. Repeating from the beginning would be too aggravating. So she planned. Mined earth was taken meticulously into the corner of cistern, where it was just as meticulously added to the pile and then dutifully stomped down into dense clay. She devoted some time to making sure clay was forming in a shape of cube - extra effort now meant less effort later.

Of course, she could not just dig her way to the front lawn. Her jailor would notice. And attempt some kind of preventive demarche against her. But she remembered. She remembered satellite map of the neighbourhood, etched it into her memory as she planned and calculated again and again where should she emerge. In the end, she had picked a spot in the corner - the unpopular nook of lawn just between the households, where trash cans were kept. She expected to find some useful trash to mask the entrance to her tomb.

She heard. She smelled. It was very near. But it was not the time yet. It was evening outside. People would notice. People would ask questions. People would get spooked. People would alert her jailor. That just wouldn't do. But she had the time. She could allow preparations.

***

As her hand broke the last layer of earth, she smelled. And then, she saw the moon. She willed to see more, as she shambled out of the hole, doing her best to mess the upper layer as little as possible. She looked around. Dark window looked tempting. But she was not in a hurry. Revenge is best served cold. She dove back underground, fetching her prepared loads of earth to mask the hole she made. She brought more and more outside, and then she poured it back into the hole, and laid lawn over it. It had to be inconspicuous, so it became inconspicuous again. The sound of engine approached.

As she waited patiently for the garbage truck beside the tree, she smelled warmth. She looked up. A songbird had just prepared to announce the dawn. Her hand snatched up, inhumanly quickly. Her other hand caught the elbow as the whole forearm disconnected from the sharp jerk. Not the time to go to pieces. Composing herself had led to a soft crunch, warm coppery taste dripping into her dry throat, as she chewed up her prize. It felt good.

Garbage truck came, unkempt man in green overalls and filthy boots at the wheel. As he hauled trash cans to the truck one by one, grumbling under his breath about trash-happy yuppies, she made her move. As he turned to carry the empty can back, she slipped behind his back. She vaulted upwards, her limbs barely missing detachment, as she landed on the roof of the truck and threw herself flat against the cool metal. Man heard nothing behind his soliloquy and clatter of cans.

***

Junkyard was good to her. No one ever wondered around without a good reason and loud forewarning, so she could allow herself some slack. Having all her senses back now, she drank into the world deeply, never sated with how much of it she took in. She ate squirrels, cats, pigeons and rats. She bathed in the pool of rainwater. She listened to the din of highway behind the wall. She touched everything.

Now, in bare and unforgiving light, she started to feel more about herself. There was no more doubt about it now. She was dead. Rotting dried corpse, moved only by the sheer willpower and refusal to buckle down and die. She could not fathom a way to go back to living state. On the flip side, she could not fathom a way to die, either. She wanted to live too much. And so she decided to take what she had, and make the best of it.

Scouring junkyard for useful, she grew crafty. She eavesdropped on people. She snuck off newspapers and listened in to radio and TV. She kept her distance as she planned her next moves. She scavenged whatever leather and useful metal scraps she could find, reinforcing her joints and limbs with thongs and spindles, cables and rebars. She stole a pot from groundskeepers kitchen, and melted old dolls in it, preparing plastic casts. She experimented. She persevered and survived. She scavenged old books and learned all that her hungry eyes could read.

As far as she was concerned, she had defined herself as a lich. A long dead person, who's undying interest and dogged determination permitted them to continue their persistent existence beyond the grave. Having defined herself as lich, she did as all liches do - studied. As she snuck around the junkyard, she grew alerted. Her presence could not be hidden for much more. She wouldn't be found out for a very long time, yet, but she had no doubts people would figure someone is there on the junkyard beside wild rodents.

***

Why would she want mask? She didn't knew. But she had it. Her reinforced limbs and body wrapped in white-grey plastic strips that she melded out of whichever plastic she could scavenge from junkyard made some sense to her - why not protect the body? She had almost fallen apart more then a few times during her struggle for freedom, so taking care of her corporeal integrity was of the essence. But mask? Faceless mask, to boot? She supposed she just wanted to divorce herself from the last remainder of what she once was - her face, although dried and rotten, could still be recognised, whereas in her new garment, she was a faceless wraith. But she just couldn't bear to part with her hair - the only part of former her that survived the death more or less intact and unchanged. She supposed returning vanity was but a sign of her sanity - very surprising revelation, considering the actual fact of death.

All in all, she was satisfied with her appearance, after she devoted some good time to details. Most of hassle was with braiding hair - to preserve it, she braided it into six long braids, falling freely over her back. It slightly disturbed her that something like this held importance, but then again, wasn't revenge the only reason for her to keep her doubtlessly-unnatural existence?

But if the appearance was important, communication had to be in the order of the day. Why getting all dressed up if there's no ball to go? She figured she wanted to say a few choice words to her jailor before condemning her to death. At times, she pondered if the jailor should die just like she herself did, but in the end, decided that there is no need to be that cruel - not to mention risk spurring on the battle of two rotting husks refusing to die. Well, technically she wasn't rotting any more, not after some forays into chemistry and obscure books on mummification, taxidermy and a throng of other comparably unsavoury subjects.

She was not impressed. Voice was not working. She willed it to work. She wasn't sure how it worked, but it did. She dubbed it spider whispers - soft, hissing, velvety sound bordering on the very edge of audible and felt, cutting into the silence like sliding razorblade, slick and bloody with dark intentions. She supposed that's par for the course for revenge-obsessed undead.

***

Junkyard was dear to her. She grew up into her unlife here, put the horror of unbirth behind and prepared to mete out her justice. It was a long time, but now it was time to go back to the concrete underground where she died. Groundskeeper was growing suspicious of her activities, it seemed, if extra traps and poison bait for rodents was of any indication. It was time to move on, and she was prepared. She ventured into the city, stealing tools, books and other necessities that she required for her return.

She understood that someone would notice continuous activity on the topside, and so she had resolved to bring in everything at once, and then seal off the exit until the time it could be used again. She was not willing to seal herself away from the world, however - and she would have no need to. Her planning intended slight expansion of cistern into several underground rooms. She felt it would be fitting to mete out her justice in the exact place where she was slighted - which was pretty much the only reason why she returned to this haven. Other rooms were for her - at least until the success of revenge she would have to live and work somewhere.

Angle grinders, jackhammer and even some explosives would all come in handy, she surmised, as she laid out her plans for underground dwelling that would open into secluded part of sewer via concealed door. She liked when plan came together.

***

It was a good night. She slipped out of the manhole and sniffed. Aroma of blooming flowers tingled her dead nostrils, as she crossed the street, unseen in the shadow of trees. It was a good night to check on her mark. It's been years ever since she prepared her revenge. She was to carry it out long ago, but as she rose her hand for the first time, she had to stay it. Her jailor was pregnant, and she did not see it just to end the life of baby as well. Thus, she waited for two long years, biding her endless time with books and studies till her jailor would no longer be needed as a mother.

Today could be a good day for revenge, she surmised, as she eyed the jailor. So blissfully unaware of the undead retribution hanging over her head. She moved, unseen and unheard, bony fingers unsheathing butcher's cleaver with barely audible rustle of leather. Jailor failed to notice. Blade at jailor's neck caught her attention, but by that time, it was too late for her.

- ...AAh!... Who... Ahh! Don't, please don't! Don't kill me!  
- It iz amuzeenk, how shkared huy ahre.  
- Eep! Who are you!? Please, you want money, I have money, just let me go!  
- Aahz. No, Haae vish not huyr maaney. Kome viz me, koodlebuudy.  
- ...EEEK!

As they spoke, she had dragged jailor subtly, ushering her closer and closer to the trash cans and hidden entrance to the tomb where justice would take place. With a light kick of her foot, hidden door sprung open. It had effect on jailor. Quite possibly, jailor thought it was a door to hell. Jailor was right, if so.

She pushed her wildly struggling mark down the short slope, into the cistern. It was obvious jailor recognised where they are, courtesy of candles kept lit within the cistern 24/7. A little chore to remind of the revenge.

- Oh god, oh god, have mercy on my soul... It's you, Kim, isn't it!? Isn't it!? You came back from hell for me!  
- Yesh.

What was the point in clarifying the obvious? Jailor understood the important part, anyhow.

- Zees iz my revenje, Taarah. Eye for ze eye, laife for ze laife.

She cut, routinely sharpened blade easily severing the windpipe and jugular veins. It momentarily snagged against the vertebrae, and she twisted her wrist just a little, letting blade slip inbetween two bones, finishing the cut clean. As the head rolled off, last scream turned gurgle, then it was silent. She let the headless body fall down on the floor. It was over. She took the life of her jailor.

Ragged breathing behind her back was not expected, but she was not surprised. The husband. Ideally, she hoped for revenge without his participation, but apparently, he had some kind of head start on the issue. But then again, monkey powers were never detailed on in books to begin with. She turned, still holding the cleaver in her bony hand.

- Goot nacht, Ron.  
- ...What are you?... Who sent you?... Why did you... hnaah... sniff... WHY DID YOU KILL MY WIFE, YOU BASTARD!  
- Haae'em Kim. She hat keelld me. Now Haae keelld hior.  
- Wh... WH! WHAAAT?

She briefly removed mask with free hand to strip away the doubts. She knew she could be recognised, despite the ravages of death, but she did not want to be seen for long. Ron did not deserve that much of shock.

- She hat loored me heere. Wiz koodlebuudyes. Zeen coofed me to tha wall. Left me die. Hae did. Now iz her toorn.  
- Bbbut..... HOW? WHY?  
- Hae noow not. Hae am dead. But hae svoore to take mai revenje. Et iz done.  
- Why did she kill you?  
- For huy. She vaz in love with huy. Obzessivaelee zo.  
- I... This is madness! It can not be happening! I must be having a nightmare or something!  
- Aahz. Maibee huy ahre. Maibee huy ahre. Vill huy riitorn to bed, Ron? Go ond shleep. By ze sanraize, ze nachtmahre vill fate avay, vashed avay by ze brant new dai.  
- ...Will it? Will it?! Where are we, even?! I don't even know where my bed is?  
- Where huy ahre, zees iz haell. Tonacht, et iz zo kloze to huyr oyme. Sstep avay, Ron. Sstep avay. Let tha dead dae. Turn ahround, ond ran. Ran avay, to ze dai.

Casting last horrified glance over the grisly scene before him, husband turned away sharply, breaking into a blind run. Run, which was intercepted. She leaped, the handle of cleaver connecting solidly right behind his ear. He had no chance, knocked down and out like a light. She regarded the prone form curiously. Although ostensibly, the husband betrayed her and married her jailor, he doubtlessly did so without malicious intent. He was deceived by jailor, just like everyone else. She wondered where she was looked for, while jailor worked her web of lies in. In awful lot of places, she surmised.

There was no reason to hurt the husband more. Although he could've looked for her better, and could've seen through jailor's lies, probably, he had done nothing malicious to her of his own free will. Therefore, she bore no grudge with him. However, she felt no remorse for ending his marriage in such abrupt way. He would find solace in bringing up children. Putting down the cleaver next to headless body, she hefted the unconscious lump, and carried him back to the entrance. This door would have to be eliminated tonight, but first, she had to make sure there was no recollection of event reality with him.

Dumping his body on the bed, she quickly verified presence and slumber of children in their rooms. Pilfering house medical cabinet yielded some of what she wanted to use. Kitchen yielded the rest of required items. Using the funnel, she poured concentrated emulsion of vitamin C down the husband's throat, chasing it down with quadruple dose of ground-up ibuprofen mixed with Ny-Quil. Severe hypervitaminosis plus delirium induced by analgesic and cough medicine would be quite efficient in persuading the husband that he came down with flu, and events of yesterday were just a horrific nightmare spurned on by his sickness and shock of his wife's farewell letter, in which she had confessed her dissatisfaction with the husband and general disincline to moulder in this lofty abode any longer in the presence of much more enticing possibilities.

Obviously enough, letter was but a forgery - as immaculate as it was. She had time to plan it all. Letter was not only evidence she planted this night - various leftovers from documents were spread in logic places around the house. Half-way finished divorce papers snuck into the bureau. She pilfered clothes from jailor's wardrobe, along with all the odds and ends people usually pack for a long journey. It would be a perfect deception. Eye for an eye. Just as everyone was deceived about her fate - so would everyone be deceived about the fate of her jailor.

She took all the pilfered belongings down to the cistern. A little bit of arrangement later, all was ready for final sealing. Secret door, her gateway to freedom, was sealed first. Preparations were made for completely refilling the tunnel with earth, as it was done, the only thing left to do was to fix the lawn from the topside. That would wait till the wee hours of morning, just before dew would settle in.  
She cast the last critical glance over the cistern. Given her own experiences, she couldn't be sure her jailor wasn't obsessed enough to overcome death just like she did. So she hedged her bets. She meticulously dismembered the body, securing each limb to the separate wall ring. She left them suspended from chains, so no amount of wiggling could possibly shake anything loose. She secured body suspended in the air with other chains, finally attaching head to a separate hook altogether. Although the task was decidedly morbid, it ensured that even if her jailor were to experience same unbirth as she did, she would not be able to break free easily.

As she lifted the last concrete block, the last candle inside the cistern faltered and died out, darkness concealing the gruesome scene inside. With a light heart, she pushed the block in it's place and whispered - "Requiescat in pace, Fortunado."

*** *** ***

_Author Notes._

First of all, the reasons why this little nugget of undead rumination appeared on the net. While I liked "A box of Cuddlebuddies" a lot, I entertained no notion of writing any kind of sequel back then. Redux cinched my opinion on "not my cup of tea" and the topic was closed. What reopened it for me lately would be sequels to the story. "Family Legacy" by daccu65 and "A Herione's Legacy" + "Conversing from the Pit of Hell" by rye. bread. The idea of Kim coming back as undead is quite interesting, but... I didn't like the stories, especially rye. bread's angle. I have absolutely nothing to fail them for, literature-wise (In fact, I'd recommend them to people who like to get emotional.), but "moody undead" just don't cut it for me. So, not to be the vain naysayer, I've wrote my own version, with blackjack and hookers. Well, OK, maybe not on the last two, but... This is my take on the undead angle.

Second... Why would it be this way? Well, all the folklore about undead I've came across so far does not feature moody undead much. Try as I might, but I couldn't recall even one undead that would waste time on emotions when it had capability to wreck some unholy vengeance on it's murderer. What is already dead can not die again, and therefore, for the undead, corporeal shackles are hardly a restraint - they have all the time they need to whittle down and break through just about any conventional means of holding living. Including cinderblock cistern. The only undead to actually lament their confinement are ones which are bound in mystical ways - either rigidly attached to certain locale (like rusalkas are confined to water) or/and ethereal (ghosts), and thus unable to actually cave someone's noggin in directly.

Anyway, I digress. I found the idea of emotional zombiKim lacking, and this is my idea of what would've happened if Kim were to become undead in cistern. I hope you enjoyed.


End file.
